Borderless Deceit (31 page)

Yet even as he was explaining this, Jaime, eyebrows cocked in disbelief, had been shaking her head. Eventually she seemed appeased. Then they rationally examined Jaime's sparse information about Rachel, the Berlin banker, and the other shadowy figure.

All the same, despite their reestablished working harmony, Jaime's words could not be unspoken and Heywood could not deny, not to himself, nor to anyone else who might care to know, that her twisted accusation – that his deployment of prudent, professional doubt was nothing more than nourishment for his ego – had devastated him. It hurt. Equally hurtful was her suspicion that Rachel was linked to Carson.

A double hurt.

He knew a thing or two about double hurts. He'd experienced them often. No one raises four sons without absorbing injustices and being submitted to double, triple, even quadruple hurts. The most loved make the most painful accusations.

Pop, listen, you need a logic primer and you need it bad, I mean, real bad
.

Or,
You know, old man, this vision of yours about my future, for me it reaches to the sidewalk and no further
.

Or,
Come on, Dada! If there was a Noble Prize for double standards, you'd take it, no contest
.

No hurt is greater than when inflicted by one's children. Thank God, Hannah had the knack for helping him get through.

“Let's think this one through, Jaime,” he'd growled once she had stopped shaking her sceptical head. “If that memo you found with Rachel's name on it – you know, the think piece about the hotel in Alexandria which links her to some Berlin banker – was written by Carson to himself, then he must have obtained that data the same way he acquires all his stuff. And the sources he has, you'll have too. I'll make sure of that. To understand all this we need more data on that Berlin banker. When will you know?”

“Ever been to Berlin, Irv?” Jaime had replied in her baiting way. “I've looked at a couple of sites. Berlin isn't Ottawa, you know. It's big. Lots of bankers there. And bankers being bankers, they all look the same. How do we pick Miss Dunn's consort out of a crowd of faceless guys that all live like machines? As for the boat off Alexandria's coast, there's more than a few yachts sailing around in that part of the Mediterranean. I even hit a dead end tracing payments for her room in the El Salamlek Palace. They went for settlement to a numbered account at a Bermuda bank. No chance yet to connect it with a payee name. Don't forget, Irv. Carson has that pipeline to the Yanks. He's got access to the world's biggest data banks. It's an effort for me just to sneak near that kinda info. Getting the dope on Rachel's friends will take time.”

“Do it, Jaime,” the Czar had ordered. “You're the only one who can. Break laws if need be. I'll ensure cover. I'd invoke national security if necessary. If you think Carson's pulling funny strings, it's my right to know.”

But the Czar, upon leaving Jaime's lab, had to absorb one final gratuitous comment.

You're the boss, Irv. I'll do the digging, no problem. All I ask, when facts are uncovered, get your brainbox to do some reasoning. Is that a deal?

The remark deserved a rejoinder and at the door he turned to have the last word, but thought the better of it. She seemed content that moment. She had pushed her chair over to a monitor and was quietly humming, her right hand actioning the mouse. Jaime was renewing her quest, reviving her hunt for truth and knowledge. How could he interrupt the solemnity of it? All that remained was to skulk off, which he did, feeling generous, even honourable, though underneath there was the hurt.

Along Mackay, a stop at Dufferin, then the left turn into Ivy Crescent. How many times had that turn signalled an end to the working day? Figure it out. Thirty-five years in the Service, fifteen spent in other countries – Nigeria, Sweden, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Cuba. Rich years. Four sons born in places where the mid-wives babbled out their excitement in languages he didn't fathom. Twenty years at headquarters, twenty years of making this left turn each night. Remarkable, he thought, how the act of turning from Mackay into the Crescent forced transition. Ten hours a day his every brain cell was devoted to the Service, but when this simple turn was completed, all that switched off. Here his attention honed in on Hannah who was patiently awaiting him at home. How often had the turn been made? Three hundred times a year. Twenty years. Six thousand times. Six thousand skipped heartbeats, six thousand surges of joy. His thoughts fixing on Hannah unfailingly dispelled the Service's barbarisms. Hannah produced a tranquility that was as predictable and unstoppable as the life-giving forces of spring all around.

Except today.

The Crescent's concord seemed muted. Its fountain of harmony was sputtering. On account of his latest child. A surrogate child. He'd have done anything for her. He still would, despite the knife which had ripped into his soul. Easing into the driveway he reflected on the sensation. How grotesquely unjust the remark was that he nurtured his ego. And the suspicions of Rachel…baseless! Such pure baloney. Jaime didn't seem to like Rachel much. That was because they'd never met. If only he could introduce them. Jaime would love Rachel. Everybody did. What was happening instead? Jaime was busily creating a new file – on Rachel – with God-only-knows what invented contents. The Czar stiffened. He'd have to insist on full control. He made a mental
note to ensure that happened. Rachel damaged by twisted cyberspace plots dreamt up by Carson – it would be too monstrously unjust. Still, Jaime could prove tricky. Sure, she excelled in her work, but she also lacked experience. She didn't quite have the knack yet of separating the grain from the chaff, of perceiving the subtler truths. The way she had snapped at him, this manner of lashing out – it proved she was a neophyte. Yet he loved her as he loved his sons. Think back, he urged himself when he took the key out of the ignition, think back to his sons landing their unjust blows. Had he not responded gracefully? Had he not always practised absolute forgiveness?

As expected, Hannah was in the garden under Rita and Gerry's great maple. He duck-walked up. Her wan face beamed out a smile and he felt electrified. “Irving, darling. Home early. How delicious.”

After more than thirty years of marriage, Hannah's English accent still grabbed him in the groin. He bent forward to kiss her forehead. “Hi sweet. Thought you'd be outside. Getting back in touch with nature?”

“Such a gorgeous day. I couldn't stay in bed. I'm feeling ever so much better. Doubly so now, with you here.”

The embracing warmth in Hannah's voice caused him to feel a tingle which rose from the soles of his feet and ascended to the tip of his scalp. He reached for her face to brush her cheek with a thumb, then placed a fleshy kiss on her mouth. Since the day he proposed marriage – and every day since then – she'd managed to convince him that no matter how deep the savagery in the workplace she was his ultimate balm. She swept all pain away. How was the day, darling? she'd ask so fervently it sounded as if it was the only question she'd ever had and she desperately wanted it answered. Following this, he would pour his heart out, with minor embellishing and some editing to create colour, of course.

Which is what transpired under Rita and Gerry's monumental tree.

“Wonderful day,” he replied. “Spent some time with the young ones. They love getting advice. Did a bit of mentoring with one. A fine young girl. A whiz at technology. Helped her interpret some data she stumbled onto. Grateful she was. Endearing really. Wish you could have seen it. When you're stronger we'll invite her over. You two would
get along. She'd be like a daughter to you. Don't laugh, sweet. She's as good as they come. Can I get you tea?”

“I've had tea, darling. Rita came over an hour ago. They've had an exciting day. Well, mostly Gerry. He acquired high-speed access today.”

“High-speed access for Gerry? In that little house? After all these years? I always thought Gerry's access to Rita was never less than instantaneous.”

“Irving!” Hannah's laugh was deep and throaty. “Don't be naughty. Not that, darling. The high-speed access is to the Internet. It made me think we should get a computer.”

Irving always felt a surge when Hannah called him naughty. Did perverts feel that when they enjoyed a spanking from their wives? All power to them if they did. Yes, yes, through the years Hannah and he had their little perversions. He became quite powerless to control his urges when she delivered the word
naughty
with her deep throaty laugh. He always responded with a sexy little swivel of his balloon-like hips. Her deep voice, his hips moving – this was the prelude. When next he'd take her he'd have a giddy feeling. Through Hannah, Irving was convinced, he accessed the accumulated carnal knowledge of the whole English nation. The first time she called him
naughty
…he'd never forget it…during their honeymoon in Rome on the second night as he approached her from behind. Now, here, under Gerry and Rita's maple he suddenly recalled that reckless, sweaty hour. The memory made him shudder.

Hannah, studying the fence separating their yard from Rita and Gerry's, didn't notice the inward turn of his eyes, nor his slight tremor. She said, “Apparently one can do one's banking on the Internet and one avoids the tedious line-ups with tellers. Wouldn't you like that, darling? Think how you would save time.”

“I'm surrounded by high tech stuff at work, sweet,” he said, suddenly sounding like a manager. “High tech creates problems. Some days that's all I do, solve high tech problems. Do we want that at home?”

“Rita and Gerry have no problems. Rita said they now have the world's biggest library sitting in their den. I think that would be fun.”

Irving's mind was now replaying their third and fourth honeymoon nights in Rome, better than the first two, a man and his new wife getting naughtier all the time. “Who needs the world's biggest library
inside the rumpus room?” he said in a gruff voice. “What's happened to moderation? Real books take up space. They pose limits. Real books are humbling. I like that.”

“But darling, we wouldn't want a huge computer. A small one would do. Wouldn't that be moderation?”

The spring weather continued to inspire. Warm, light air under azure skies every day. Hannah's strength surged back. Irving reacquired access to her, while she was soon adventurous enough to call a computer supplier. Within a week a small but potent device was installed in her sewing room. Access to the Internet was fast and, once she had the hang of it, Hannah claimed that in that cramped space on Ivy Crescent she now had a daily experience on the same level as fingering the catalogues of manuscripts in the British Museum's famous circular reading room.

“Sweet,” Irving said dismissively when Hannah insisted that he admire her discovered riches, “I'm delighted you're excited by the Internet. But you know, part of my job is managing ten thousand networked computers. So their impact is old hat to me. And because I work with technology all day, I prefer abstinence from it when I get home.”

All the same, the Czar observed his wife quickly becoming nimble in the IT world. She got herself a printer next, and within days of that, over dinner, was reading him the downloaded correspondence of obscure prime ministers who had served at the turn of the twentieth century. “Irving, darling, I find this arresting. I truly do. It's all quite, quite remarkable.”

“There's books with that material in them. Mass produced. Probably available in paperback for a couple of bucks.”

“Not true, darling. These are unpublished letters. It's terribly fascinating.”

Hannah's instant computer savvy silenced Heywood. Brooding over the marital ground he was losing, he had a sudden thought.
Jaime. She's got a bag stuffed full of impressive tricks. If I knew some I could come home and dazzle
.

And so it was, when Jaime sent the Czar a message inviting him to her lab for an update on her research into Nikko Krause and Morsi Abou-Ghazi, that the Czar seized the opportunity. Urgent feet beneath quivering thighs and bouncing hams propelled him through the passages of the Service complex. Frisky as a lamb he fingered the combination for entry into her domain and in the semi-darkness she wheeled around. With a jewel of a smile she exclaimed, “Hey Irv, whassup?”

“Whassup?” the playful Czar mimicked. “Lemme see.” He began patting his great belly as if in deep thought. “Ah'll tells yuh whassup – we'se a'winnin' a war.” Jaime loved it. The bangles on her wrist jangled as gleefully she pumped the air with her fist. “Seriously, Jaime. Good news on all fronts. Not a hiccup in the network for four weeks running. The dogs on the High Council have stopped barking. All fast asleep now. So there's time for me to bone up on Zadokite Port.”

“Super for you, Irv. Listen, I got some neat stuff for you. I sent it on, but notice you haven't read it. Do I need to simplify Zadokite Port some more?”

“That's why I'm here. You've got to help me figure all that out. As for the new stuff, is it telling? Proof that Carson Pryce is a traitor we could best do without?”

“Not that, Irv. Carson's an operator, no doubt. One of the best. Maybe
the
best. Always a jump ahead of everyone else. Kick-ass intuition is what he's got. Sets him apart. He's got these perfect hunches, I mean, about who to go after. But turncoat? Naw. I'm dead cert. He's too busy putting it to the dickheads of the world.”

The Czar stiffened. Intuition? Carson possessed intuition? Kick-ass intuition even? Intuition, instant and profound, was, Heywood considered, his personal forte. He'd never met anyone that matched it. Anyway, kick-ass intuition was intuition at what level? A modest one, he supposed. His intuition, by way of comparison, always came on powerfully, like a bolt of lightning. It never failed to let him land a knock-out punch. Heywood was about to claim that not once over all the years had he ever seen evidence of Carson having anything so elevated as intuition, or, for that matter, judgement, discretion, or any other virtue characteristic of the human race, but having arrived at Jaime's lab in a light mood he decided to stay that way. “Carson fingers dickheads, you say, Jaime?” he said fetchingly. “Does that mean that
when he kicks ass his toes massage posteriors? I'd like to have some facts on that.”